A/N: Ok, well, I tried for longer …I know I could make it longer, but I'm not sure what the next time I update will be … things are pretty crazy right now … anyway, enjoy!
Disclaimer: The plot is my own. J.K. Rowling owns the characters. Except for the baby, of course.
Harry pays for the Walkers' Crisps and jelly babies and whole milk Hermione had been craving all morning, rubbing his eyes. The bloody harsh light of the store hurts. Ridiculous. No wonder people are always in such a hurry to get out of grocery stores. They're so bright, so artificially bright.
He feels like a housewife.
She doesn't want chocolate frogs or pumpkin pasties.
Just Muggle food.
So Harry decided to go out and buy her that bloody Muggle food. Anything to keep her happy.
He passes a young wife and her baby. She's cooing, and the baby is giggling. He looks over his shoulder to keep watching them. Ever since all of this started, it's like he has a homing device. He can hear a baby crying from a mile away. He's got baby senses or something.
It's kind of cool, actually.
He hums a song as he continues walking. He's never seen Les Miserables, but Hermione has been playing the soundtrack for the past week, singing along as she makes dinner, as she works on reports for the Ministry, while she reads the newspaper … and now, the songs are stuck in his head. A sweet reminder. A painful reminder.
He can't have her.
He turns the corner down an alley, turning, Apparating. And he's in the apartment.
He enters the kitchen and stands in the door. She's sitting with her back to him, the Daily Prophet lying in front of her on the kitchen table. And he just studies her. He loves the way her hair flows down her back. It's been growing fast; it's almost to her elbows. It's beautiful.
She senses his presence, and she turns her body around in the chair.
Harry holds up the bag triumphantly. "As requested, one bag of Jelly Babies, one bottle of whole milk, and five packets of Walkers' Crisps."
"Prawn-flavoured?"
"Of course."
"You're wonderful."
She hadn't meant to say that.
She had meant just a simple 'thanks'.
Before any of this had happened, she wouldn't have cared what she said to Harry, whether it was 'thank you, you're an angel' or 'oh, you're wonderful'. But now … she puts up her guard the minute she lets a comment like that slip.
He's wonderful.
She just can't help it. She's been blurting out things like that for the past week, coming so close to just spitting it all out. Close, but she's never said it, thank goodness.
Where would they be if she did?
Hermione lifts her eyes to his, surprised at how close he is. Not too close, but close enough for her to breathe him in. Close enough for her to feel the power of his intent stare. He's just looking down at her. She needs some answers, but all she's getting from his eyes are his own questions. And they're asking the same things, but they don't realise it.
He needs to get away from her smell, that wonderful smell that makes him want to pick her up and spin her around and kiss her lips over and over again and scream out those words. He is so dangerously close to telling her everything, and he can't do that. He can't let that happen.
The doorbell rings.
"I have to go," he says softly, and then clears his throat. "I have to go," he repeats. "Ron and I are going to have lunch."
Hermione nods, blinking a few times.
"I'll be back in a little, all right?"
The doorbell rings again, and there's a pounding noise.
Harry moves quickly to answer it, looking over his shoulder once. "I'm going to take a shower," she says, refusing to look up at him, even though she can feel his eyes on her. Her vision is blurring, and she doesn't even know why she's crying. But she can't let him see it.
Why is this so hard?
Harry watches her leave the kitchen.
She doesn't look back at him.
She doesn't care.
She only wants him here because he buys her crisps and milk.
She doesn't care about him.
He opens the door and walks out, shutting the door behind him. Ron looks at him with a slightly bemused smile on his face. "What, so I'm not even allowed to say hello to Hermione anymore? Are you really that protective?"
Harry shoves his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. "She's taking a shower. Let's get a move on, all right?"
"Why are you wearing Muggle clothing?"
Harry sighs. "Long story. Well, not really, but I don't feel like explaining it."
Ron shrugs. "Well, I'm starving. Shall we?"
They Apparate into Diagon Alley and begin to stroll down the street.
"How's
the team?" Harry asks as the cold wind swirls around them.
"
's all right," Ron answers. "Viktor's actually quite good."
"And you didn't know that before?"
"Well, I just mean—he kind of went off for a little while there—he's improved quite a bit."
"Are
you still holding a grudge?"
"What—you mean about Hermione?
Nah. He's quite nice, really." Ron pauses. "He has asked
about her a lot."
"Oh?" Harry clenches his fists involuntarily.
"Yeah. Always wants to know how she is." Ron pauses. "I think he's still in love with her." Ron catches the look on Harry's face and laughs. "Who's the jealous one now?"
"What are you talking about?" says Harry, trying desperately to recover.
"Oh, good lord, you still haven't told her? What the bloody hell is going on with you two? Are you that blind?"
"What?"
"You're in love with her!" Ron yells gleefully, causing many witches and wizards to turn their heads.
"Ron -"
"You do! I can see it! You can deny it all you want, Harry, but I know it's true. I'm your best mate, all righ'? I know. You can admit it."
"Ron -"
"You need to tell her. You know that, don't you? You can't just hide it from her."
"Ron -"
"And with everything that's going on—the sooner the better."
"I'm. Not. In. Love. With. Her." Harry says each word slowly and carefully.
There's silence for a few moments.
"You're protesting a bit too much you know."
Harry sighs heavily, rolling his eyes. "You're impossible, Ron."
"Maybe. But I'm also right."
They turn into the small restaurant, and Ron finally turns the subject back to Quidditch. That's more or less all they talk about throughout the meal. But Harry's mind is still processing what Ron has said.
Should he tell her?
No, that would be stupid. She doesn't feel the same way. What if he tells her, and she laughs at him? Or screams at him?
But what if she feels the same way?
Harry shakes his head.
She will never feel the same way.
"Harry? Did you hear me?"
He blinks. Ron is holding a yellowing envelope out to him.
"What is this?" Harry asks, taking it.
Ron hesitates. "My mum found it in—in Grimmauld Place."
Harry's jaw tightens.
"It's from Sirius."
A
lump forms in his throat.
"She—she thinks he had been
planning to send it and—never gotten around to it."
Harry looks down at the envelope.
His name is written in Sirius's cramped handwriting. There's a scribble next to it, and Harry peers closer.
Jam it says.
James.
Ron coughs. "I, uh, I need to get going. Mum wanted me to come over as soon as I was done with lunch. Fred, George and I are helping her with gardening or something." He rolls his eyes and stands up. "Harry, are you all right?"
"Yeah," Harry says automatically, his eyes still fixed on the letter.
James.
Harry.
"I'll see you later then, all right?"
"Yeah," Harry says again. He doesn't look up.
Ron claps his shoulder, taking the bill in his other hand. And then he walks away.
------------
Hermione is baking cookies.
She doesn't really know why she's doing it. She just got hungry for chocolate chip cookies.
And here she is.
Her damp hair keeps dripping onto her shirt, but she's too determined to finish these cookies to care.
The door slams. Hermione's heart beats a little faster, and she forces herself to stay in the kitchen, with her back to the door.
She can hear his footsteps.
She hears a chair being pulled out.
She hears him sit down slowly.
Then, she turns around, smiling a little. Her smile fades quickly when she sees his face.
"Harry, what's wrong?"
She notices the piece of parchment paper clutched in his hand, and she walks towards him, reaching for it. He allows her to take it, and runs his hands through his hair, something she's noticed he does a lot when he's nervous.
Hermione touches his shoulder and begins to read to herself.
Harry,
I don't think this letter is going to make any sense. I don't even know why I'm writing it. Honestly, there is no real point to it. I just wanted to let you know that I'm proud of you. You're braver than anyone I've ever met—including your father. He would as proud of you as I am. They both would be.
I know I've been slightly inconsistent, and I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so selfish, to attempt to live vicariously through you. You remind me so much of your father—sometimes, I think I forget that you're different people, and I think I forget that this is a different time than that.
You are a wonderful boy, Harry, and I don't mean to be constantly comparing you to James. Like I just did. You have so many gifts and talents your father never possessed. You are unique and wonderful, and you are strong.
This letter is of no real importance. I don't know what's come over me. I just hope that you understand how much you mean to me.
Sirius.
Hermione She looks at the date of the letter. Oh, that was—she feels tears coming to her eyes.
The day before he died.
The day before Sirius was taken from Harry.
"Would you like a cookie?"
Hermione can't believe that she actually asked that. Of all the things to say at a time like this!—but Harry is nodding slowly. She goes over to the wire rack, picking up the biggest cookie and handing it to Harry.
He chews it slowly. It's warm and soft and sweet. And then—he tastes something salty. He's not sure what it is. His vision blurs. He doesn't even realise he's crying until Hermione has dropped down to her knees next to him and he's buried his face in her neck, into her damp hair, breathing in her scent as he sobs. She doesn't say anything to him, just holds him tightly, breathing in, breathing out.
And he cries.
He cries for all the things he never got to say to Sirius.
For all the things he lost that night when he was just one year old.
For all the things he lost that night fourteen years later.
"I miss him," he whispers. "I miss them."
Hermione lets go of him slightly, pressing her forehead to his. Tears are streaming down her face. "They loved you," she says forcefully. "You know that, don't you? They still do. Tell me you know that."
Harry nods slowly. "I know," he says quietly.
They stare into each other's eyes. Maybe for just a second, or a minute, or maybe an eternity. Just staring. Just breathing. Just holding on.
The timer goes off, and Hermione stands up, turning towards the oven, but Harry takes her hand. She looks back at him, and as she does, she feels a fluttering in her stomach, like butterflies. The baby. She touches her stomach.
And Harry reaches out and covers her hand with his.
He looks up at her and smiles a little. And she smiles back. And they both stare at her stomach in wonderment.
This is their child.
I'm in love with you.
How she wants to say it. How she wants to tell him that this baby—this baby is his, and its hers, and its theirs, and that she doesn't want to leave when all of this is over. She wants to fall asleep to the sound of their baby breathing in, breathing out, her head on Harry's chest and her hand in his.
Harry watches his hand move up and down on her stomach, matching her breathing.
I want to marry you.
He blinks, pulling his hand away suddenly. He stands. "I have to—I forgot to send a letter," he says randomly. "I'll, uh, I'll be in my room."
He moves away from her quickly.
I want to marry her.
That's not possible.
He's not allowed to even think that.
It's not true.
He's trying desperately to deny it, but it's already seeped into his mind, and he can't get it out of his head.
I'm in love with her.
I want to marry her.
He closes his door and collapses into the seat by his desk.
How could he have let this happen?
He rubs his forehead angrily.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Having a crush on her? That was manageable. He had difficulty breathing around her, yes, but he could deal with it.
Loving her enough to want to marry her? When did he reach that point? Where? How?
He never felt so strongly about any girl before. None compared to this.
"What can I do?" he asks himself aloud.
I'm in love with her.
I want to marry her.
"I can't," Harry says quietly, resting his head on his desk. "I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't."
She's not his to have.
-----------
That night, Harry sat in front of the television, flipping through the channels.
He hadn't been able to talk coherently at all since his revelation.
His fork had talked for him, scraping across his plate as he ate.
He had felt Hermione's eyes on him. She was confused, he knew, by his sudden repulsion. She didn't understand why he had left so suddenly.
There is absolutely nothing good on the bloody television tonight.
He needs something, anything, to take his mind off her. But he wants something that will also keep him entertained, and none of this is very exciting.
"Harry? Do you mind if I watch with you?"
He looks up quickly. Hermione is standing in the doorway, an extremely large T-shirt on—Les Miserables, of course—and plaid pants. Her hair is in a ponytail.
She's beautiful.
Harry moves over on the couch, and Hermione sits down a few inches from him. She studies him. How determinedly he keeps his eyes fixed on the television. He won't even meet her eyes. Why not? What has she said to make him feel the need to ignore her? Something must have happened while he had his hand on her stomach. Maybe he realised just how much responsibility he would have, and he was angry. Is he angry with Hermione? Does he blame her for all of this?
Just thinking that he might possibly be thinking that makes her angry.
She may be the one with a baby inside her belly, the one who will give birth to the child, but this is not all her.
How dare he blame her!
Hermione's puzzled stare becomes a hardened glare. She sighs loudly, and Harry finally turns to look at her. "What?" he asks, still not looking into her eyes.
"Did I do something?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Since you left to go—go write a letter or whatever the hell it was you were doing in your room—you've just been ignoring me. What did I do? Was it something I said? How do you think it's fair that you can just be so rude? I made a bloody huge amount of cookies, and you haven't even tried any of them!"
When did the cookies become a part of this? she asks herself angrily. But it's too late. She's already worked up beyond belief.
"And then you don't even thank me for dinner, which, yes, didn't take very long—but I mean, come on, you could have at least muttered the words. Or helped with the dishes, as opposed to just coming out her and sulking in front of the bloody television. I don't know what I did that makes you think you can just pretend I don't exist, but whatever it is -"
Harry puts his hand to her mouth. He looks up and notices that there's a little flour on her nose. Her cheeks are red, from working herself up, and her ponytail is coming slightly undone, pieces of curly hair flying in all directions.
She's adorable.
And he starts to laugh, lowering his hand.
"What's so funny?" she spits out.
"Hermione, you have—you have -" Harry tries to regain his composure, but another fit of giggles overcomes him. "You have—you have flour on your nose."
Hermione raises her hand to her nose, utterly mortified. She made those cookies hours ago! Did she have flour on her nose when she was hugging him? She must have looked positively ridiculous, scolding Harry for ignoring her while she had flour on her nose.
Harry's giggles cease, but he chuckles a little when he notices her scraping frantically at her nose.
"It's here," he says, wiping away the flour. "No big deal." He sighs. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I—I didn't mean to ignore you, or be ungrateful. Dinner was wonderful. And I was going to eat a cookie during a commercial break. Honest. And I'm sorry I laughed while you were trying to be serious. " He grins. "You did look really cute just then, though. I couldn't help myself."
Hermione allows herself to smile a little, even though she's still utterly embarrassed.
"I must have looked like a right idiot," she says.
"No—just cute."
He has to watch what he's saying. He can't allow himself to make comments like that. It's too dangerous.
Hermione's not sure why he's calling her cute so much.
It's a slightly condescending word.
Is this just more proof that he doesn't see her any new way?
He'll never see me any other way.
"So," Harry says, breaking into her thoughts. "What do you want to watch?"
--------------
Hermione's head is resting against his shoulder, and she's sleeping, unaware of the noise coming from the television. Harry strokes her hair, alternating between studying her and watching the screen.
He yawns.
He's tired.
He doesn't really want to move.
Her breathing is steady, and she looks so peaceful.
She looks beautiful.
He touches her face lightly.
"Hermione?"
She doesn't answer.
"Hermione?"
"Mmm," she moans into his arm.
"Time for bed," he says.
"I'm not tired."
Harry smiles. She's like a little child.
"Come on. Up you get."
"Can you carry me?"
Harry hesitates, and then he slowly gets up. He puts her arms around his neck, lifting her legs. He walks through the kitchen, down the hallway to her bedroom. He lays her over the sheets, pulling them out from underneath her body.
"Goodnight, Hermione," he whispers.
Suddenly, she puts her hands around his neck again, pulling his face to hers. Her eyes don't even flicker open as she presses her lips, very lightly, to his.
Harry feels the tingling sensation throughout his body, and he knows he can't just let her keep kissing him. It hurts too much, to know she doesn't realise she's doing it.
Her arms fall to her sides.
Her breathing is completely steady.
He pulls away. "Goodnight, Hermione," he whispers again. He brushes some hair out of her face, and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.
